Thus it came about that six people assembled in the tiny pink parlor of Mrs. Jasher at the hour of seven o'clock. It required dexterous management to seat the whole company in the dining room, which was only a trifle larger than the parlor. However, Mrs. Jasher contrived to place them round her hospitable board in, a fairly comfortable fashion, and, once seated, the dinner was so good that no one felt the drawbacks of scanty elbow room. The widow, as hostess, was placed at the head of the table; Don Pedro, as the eldest of the men, at the foot; and Sir Frank, with Donna Inez, faced Archie and Lucy Kendal. Jane, who was well instructed in waiting by her mistress, attended to her duties admirably, acting both as footman and butler. Lucy, indeed, had offered Mrs. Jasher the services of Cockatoo to hand round the wine, but the widow with a pretty shudder had declined.
“That dreadful creature with his yellow mop of hair gives me the shivers,” she declared.
Considering the isolation of the district, and the narrow limits of Mrs. Jasher's income, the meal was truly, admirable, being well cooked and well served, while the table was arrayed like an altar for the reception of the various dishes. Whatever Mrs. Jasher might be as an adventuress, she certainly proved herself to be a capital housekeeper, and Lucy foresaw that, if she did become Mrs. Braddock, the Professor would fare sumptuously, for the rest of his scientific life. When the meal was ended the widow produced a box of superfine cigars and another of cigarettes, after which she left the gentlemen to sip their wine, and took her two young friends to chatter chiffons in the tiny parlor. And it said much for Mrs. Jasher's methodical ways that, considering the limited space, everything went--as the saying goes--like clockwork. Likewise, the widow had proved herself a wonderful hostess, as she kept the ball of conversation rolling briskly and induced a spirit of fraternity, uncommon in an ordinary dinner party.
During the meal Mrs. Jasher had kept off the subject of the mummy, which was the excuse for the entertainment; but when the gentlemen strolled into the parlor, feeling well fed and happy, she hinted at Don Pedro's quest. As the night was cold and the Peruvian gentleman came from the tropics, he was established in a well padded arm-chair close to the sea-coal fire, and with her own fair hands Mrs. Jasher gave him a cup of fragrant coffee, which was rendered still more agreeable to the palate by the introduction of a vanilla bean. With this and with a good cigar--for the ladies gave the gentlemen permission to smoke--Don Pedro felt very happy and easy, and complimented Mrs. Jasher warmly on her capability of making her fellow-creatures comfortable.
“It is altogether comfortable, madame,” said Don Pedro, rising to make a courtly bow. In fact, so agreeable was the foreigner that Mrs. Jasher dreamed for one swift moment of throwing over the dry-as-dust scientist to become a Spanish lady of Lima.
“You flatter me, Don Pedro,” she said, waving a wholly unnecessary fan out of compliment to her guest's Spanish extraction. “Indeed, I am very glad that you are pleased with my poor little house.”
“Pardon, madame, but no house can be poor when it is a casket to contain such a jewel.”
“There!” said Lucy somewhat satirically to the young men, while Mrs. Jasher blushed and bridled, “what Englishman could turn such a compliment? It reminds one of Georgian times.”
“We are more sober now than my fathers were then,” said Hope, smiling, “and I am sure if Random thought for a few minutes he could produce something pretty. Go on, Random.”
“My brain is not equal to the strain after dinner,” said Sir Frank.
As for Donna Inez, she did not speak, but sat smiling quietly in her corner of the room, looking remarkably handsome. As a young girl Lucy was pretty, and Mrs. Jasher was a comely widow, but neither one had the majestic looks of the Spanish lady. She smiled, a veritable queen amidst the gim-crack ornaments of Mrs. Jasher's parlor, and Sir Frank, who was fathoms deep in love, could not keep his eyes off her face.
For a few minutes the conversation was frivolous, quite the Shakespeare and musical glasses kind of speech. Then Mrs. Jasher, who had no idea that her good dinner should be wasted in charming nothings, introduced the subject of the mummy by a reference to Professor Braddock. It was characteristic of her cleverness that she did not address Don Pedro, but pointed her speech at Lucy Kendal.
“I do hope your father will return with that mummy,” she observed, after a dexterous allusion to the late tragedy.
“I don't think he has gone to look for it,” replied Miss Kendal indifferently.
“But surely he desired to get it back, after paying nearly one thousand pounds for it,” said Mrs. Jasher, with well-feigned astonishment.
“Oh, of course; but he would scarcely look for it in London.”
“Has Professor Braddock gone to search for the mummy?” asked Don Pedro.
“No,” answered Lucy. “He is visiting the British Museum to make some researches in the Egyptian department.”
“When do you expect him back, please?”
Lucy shrugged her shoulders.
“I can't say, Don Pedro. My father comes and goes as the whim takes him.”
The Spanish gentleman looked thoughtfully into the fire.
“I shall be glad to see the Professor when he returns,” he said in his excellent, slow-sounding English. “My concern about this mummy is deep.”
“Dear me,” remarked Mrs. Jasher, shielding her fair cheek with the unnecessary fan, and venturing on a joke, “is the mummy a relative?”
“Yes, madame,” replied Don Pedro, gravely and unexpectedly.
At this every one, very naturally, looked astonished--that is, all save Donna Inez, who still preserved her fixed smile. Mrs. Jasher took a mental note of the same, and decided that the young lady was not very intelligent. Meanwhile Don Pedro continued his speech after a glance round the circle.
“I have the blood of the royal Inca race in my veins,” he said with pride.
“Ha!” murmured the widow to herself, “then that accounts for your love of color, which is so un-English;” then she raised her voice. “Tell us all about it, Don Pedro,” she entreated; “we are usually so dull here that a romantic story excites us dreadfully.”
“I do not know that it is very romantic,” said Don Pedro with a polite smile, “and if you will not find it dull--”
“Oh, no!” said Archie, who was as anxious as Mrs. Jasher to hear what was to be said about the mummy. “Come, sir, we are all attention.”
Don Pedro bowed again, and again swept the circle with his deep-set eyes.
“The Inca Caxas,” he remarked, “was one of the decadent rulers of ancient Peru. At the Conquest by the Spaniards, Inca Atahuallpa was murdered by Pizarro, as you probably know. Inca Toparca succeeded him as a puppet king. He died also, and it was suspected that he was slain by a native chief called Challcuchima. Then Manco succeeded, and is looked upon by historians as the last Inca of Peru. But he was not.”
“This is news, indeed,” said Random lazily. “And who was the last Inca?”
“The man who is now the green mummy.”
“Inca Caxas,” ventured Lucy timidly.
Don Pedro looked at her sharply. “How do you come to know the name?”
“You mentioned it just now, but, before that, I heard my father mention it,” said Lucy, who was surprised at the sharpness of his tone.
“And where did the Professor learn the name?” asked Don Pedro anxiously.
Lucy shook her head.
“I cannot say. But go on with the story,” she continued, with the naive curiosity of a child.
“Yes, do,” pleaded Mrs. Jasher, who was listening with all her ears.
The Peruvian meditated for a few minutes, then slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat and brought out a discolored parchment, scrawled and scribbled with odd-looking letters in purple ink somewhat faded.
“Did you ever see this before?” he asked Lucy, “or any manuscript like it?”
“No,” she answered, bending forward to examine the parchment carefully.
Don Pedro again swept an inquiring eye round the circle, but everyone denied having seen the manuscript.
“What is it?” asked Sir Frank curiously.
Don Pedro restored the manuscript to his pocket.
“It is an account of the embalming of Inca Caxas, written by his son, who was my ancestor.”
“Then you are descended from this Inca?” said Mrs. Jasher eagerly.
“I am. Had I my rights I should rule Peru. As it is, I am a poor gentleman with very little money. That,” added Don Pedro with emphasis, “is why I wish to recover the mummy of my great ancestor.”
“Is it then so valuable?” asked Archie suddenly. He was thinking of some reason why the mummy should have been stolen.
“Well, in itself it is of no great value, save to an archaeologist,” was Don Pedro's reply; “but I had better tell you the story of how it was stolen from my father.”
“Go on, go on,” cried Mrs. Jasher. “This is most interesting.”
Don Pedro plunged into his story without further preamble.
“Inca Caxas held his state amidst the solitudes of the Andes, away from the cruel men who had conquered his country. He died and was buried. This manuscript,”--he touched his pocket--“was written by his son, and details the ceremonies, the place of sepulchre, and also gives a list of the jewels with which the mummy was buried.”